"...not as vocabulary, not as syntax, not even as structure, but as a principle and a presence." -John Berger

Welcome Friends, Seekers, Artists, Seers, Howlers

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Wallace Stevens

THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT A BLACKBIRD

by Wallace Stevens

Among twenty snowy mountains,The only moving thingWas the eye of the blackbird.

II

I was of three minds,Like a treeIn which there are three blackbirds.

III

The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV

A man and a womanAre one.A man and a woman and a blackbirdAre one.

V

I do not know which to prefer,The beauty of inflectionsOr the beauty of innuendoes,The blackbird whistlingOr just after.

VI

Icicles filled the long windowWith barbaric glass.The shadow of the blackbirdCrossed it, to and fro.The moodTraced in the shadowAn indecipherable cause.

VII

O thin men of Haddam,Why do you imagine golden birds?Do you not see how the blackbirdWalks around the feetOf the women about you?VIII

I know noble accentsAnd lucid, inescapable rhythms;But I know, too,That the blackbird is involvedIn what I know.

IX

When the blackbird flew out of sight,It marked the edgeOf one of many circles.

X

At the sight of blackbirdsFlying in a green light,Even the bawds of euphonyWould cry out sharply.

XI

He rode over ConnecticutIn a glass coach.Once, a fear pierced him,In that he mistookThe shadow of his equipageFor blackbirds.

XII

The river is moving.The blackbird must be flying.

XIII

It was evening all afternoon.It was snowingAnd it was going to snow.The blackbird satIn the cedar-limbs.

* * *

THE SNOW MAN

One must have a mind of winterTo regard the frost and the boughsOf the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long timeTo behold the junipers shagged with ice,The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to thinkOf any misery in the sound of the wind,In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the landFull of the same windThat is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,And, nothing himself, beholdsNothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

* * *

THE EMPEROR OF ICE-CREAM

Call the roller of big cigars,The muscular one, and bid him whipIn kitchen cups concupiscent curds.Let the wenches dawdle in such dressAs they are used to wear, and let the boysBring flowers in last month's newspapers.Let be be finale of seem.The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal.Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheetOn which she embroidered fantails onceAnd spread it so as to cover her face.If her horny feet protrude, they comeTo show how cold she is, and dumb.Let the lamp affix its beam.The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.